


Still, Still, Still

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Apologies to Austria, Cheating, Drunk Sex, F/M, Fingerfucking, M/M, New Year's Eve, Piano Sex, Smut, Spit As Lube, his poor posterior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Prussia has a New Year's Eve party every year, but this year is different. In fact, there's a good chance things will never be the same for Austria. But there might be a silver lining among the dark clouds. A silver lining with very thick eyebrows.[Half-drunk AusEng.]





	Still, Still, Still

**Author's Note:**

> New Year's Eve always makes me sad...

It was three o’clock in the morning, and Austria was awake.

He’d given up trying to sleep an hour ago. It was New Year’s Eve, and Prussia was having his annual _awesome_ party downstairs. Austria had socialized with the other countries until midnight, but that was the end of the celebrations for him. Unfortunately, it was only the beginning for the rest of them. Well, not _every_ one. Italy hadn’t even made it to midnight; Germany had carried him up to bed at eleven-thirty. Austria envied the little thing. He wished he could be such a heavy sleeper. Hungary had stayed downstairs when Austria retreated to their bedroom. _To make sure Prussia doesn’t break anything,_ she claimed. Austria had given her a weak smile, a kiss on the cheek. _Noble of you. Good night, my darling._ Then he’d tossed and turned for three hours while the muffled shouts and laughter of the party below slowly drove him mad.

And now, now that he was overtired and had no hope of falling asleep, there was silence. It was the sort of irony that Austria normally would have appreciated, but not when it was keeping him from his beauty sleep.

 _Ah, well._ Nothing for it—if he was going to be awake, no reason to do it thirsty. He’d refrained from leaving his room for fear of being accosted by some drunken reveller, but now the coast seemed to be clear. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself, stepped into his velvet slippers, and ventured silently down the staircase.

The living room was a mess of empty bottles, half-drained glasses, sparkling confetti, couch cushions, and sleeping men. Spain and Romano had passed out sitting up on one of the sofas, their heads leant together, drool wetting their bottom lips. France was sprawled on the other couch, an arm flung over his eyes, mouth open and snoring almost as loudly as Germany did. Austria couldn’t imagine England putting up with that. Then again, they weren’t technically together, probably never would be. One was always doing something to piss off the other. A lasting partnership couldn’t survive that. A long, happy coupling had to be like Austria and Hungary. Caring, friendly, utterly devoted, unerringly loyal. France flirted with anything that moved, and everyone knew the rumors of England’s . . . conquests. Some said America, some said Japan, some even said Portugal. Austria supposed there was nothing wrong with polyamory—to each his own, so long as it harmed no one—but it was not for him. Or for Hungary.

 _Curious,_ Austria thought as he gave the inebriated sleepers a wide berth. _Where is England? And Prussia and Hungary? I wonder if . . ._ As soon as the thought entered his mind, he couldn’t shake it. England and Prussia were probably somewhere together. Austria wouldn’t put it past either of them, especially not when alcohol was involved. But that didn’t explain Hungary’s absence. Perhaps she was in a guest bedroom? _Ah, that will be it._ She probably didn’t want to risk waking him, and so she was sleeping in another room. _So like her._ A fond smile spread across Austria’s lips as he stepped into the kitchen and flicked on the light.

There was Hungary. Naked.

Lying on top of Prussia. _Naked._

If they’d been in bed, beneath blankets, at least that would have provided some sort of dignity to the affair. But there they lay, in a position that gave Austria—or, indeed, anyone who stood in the kitchen doorway—a full view of the results of the tryst. Hungary’s legs were still spread to straddle Prussia’s thighs, so Austria could see the pink folds that had once been only his to look at and touch, tainted with sticky white. The color of purity, oh, what a night of irony. Prussia’s cock had long since softened, of course, but Austria could not stop staring at it, at the tiny pearl of seed crowning its head. Even flaccid, Austria could tell it was longer than his own. Had it pleasured Hungary more than his? Had it reached some deeper, secret core that he had never been able to? Had she thought of this Prussian cock while she and Austria made love? Had she planned this, for hours, days, months? Had she longed for it, and only acted upon that longing now, alcohol and exhaustion stripping away her inhibitions? Or had they done it before?

When?

When Austria and Germany weren’t home?

Where?

In Austria’s bed? In Prussia’s? Up against the wall? On the stairs?

Hungary’s head was on Prussia’s chest, over his heart. Her hair splayed over his face. They were dead asleep.

Austria wiped tears from his eyes, turned off the light, and started back across the living room. He would deal with it in the morning. They would still be drunk, even if he did wake them right now. And he wanted to see what they would do, come morning, unaware that he had witnessed anything. Would they admit outright? How long could a guilty conscience weigh on Hungary, on Prussia? Which one would break first? Austria felt agony tear at his heart, but it was a distant feeling, made impersonal by his fatigue. He was glad this hadn’t happened during the day. What a sobbing mess he would have been. Better this way. The ugly crying would likely come eventually, but he was grateful for the delay.

He had nearly reached the staircase when he heard the familiar, soothing sound of his piano. _Am I hallucinating? Perhaps this is a dream. A perfect nightmare._ He changed course, past the stairs, down the hall and into his music room.

England was sitting at his piano.

Austria stood in the doorway a moment, watching the blond nation from behind. He sat with his feet tucked beneath the piano bench, his wrists loose, hands light and tentative on the keys, his head rising and falling as he read the sheet music atop the piano and dropped his gaze to find the correct key. It was how Austria had played in the beginning. Unfamiliar with the keyboard, playing with his eyes rather than his fingers. Now Austria played with his eyes closed. One could not see music, and one did not need to—one only needed to feel it.

Austria stepped over to the piano. England glanced up at him. His green eyes held a bit of spiritous haze, but he was coherent enough to say, “Happy New Year, Mr. Austria.”

From what Austria had seen, this would not be a happy new year. But he was a gentleman above all else, so he replied, “Happy New Year, Mr. England.”

England shifted to the left side of the seat, an invitation that Austria took without hesitation. This night—morning, whatever it was—did not feel real. He didn’t need to care that he was wearing nightclothes, no more than England seemed to care about his tie, the knot of which now hung down over his breastbone like a door knocker. Austria imagined taking it, knocking, being let in to a heart he had more than once doubted the existence of.

_Stop. Have you no sense?_

England reached up to turn the sheet over, back to the beginning of the song. “I hadn’t realized this was one of yours,” he remarked. “I only know it in English.”

Normally, Austria would have said the old familiar: _Typical Englishman._ But tonight felt different. The most basic rule of his life had been broken, so nothing had to make sense. He wouldn’t be surprised if the piano made no sound when he tried to play, if dawn came grey and without a hint of sunshine. The world had already stolen one of his loves, why not the others? Why not stab him through the heart until there was nothing left but a blackened, bloody hole? This was why the old, scarred men of the world warned against love. Once you gave your heart to someone, you were powerless against them.

_Is that why England doesn’t stay with anyone?_

“Still,” England said, voice soft, “still, still.”

Austria stared. He was singing. England was singing an Austrian Christmas carol.

 

_“One can hear the falling snow_

_For all is hushed.”_

 

His words were a tad slurred, and he sang through his nose at times, and he couldn’t really keep track of his notes, but there was something pure about it all. It had been so long since Austria had heard this: the shy head of talent poking out from a shell of self-deprecation. So many people said _Oh, I can’t sing. I can’t play._ But if they only tried—then, who knew that might happen!

England lost his place again, so Austria pressed the proper key for him. England flashed him a small, grateful smile and found the next note.

 

_“The world is sleeping_

_Holy Star its vigil keeping.”_

 

They went back and forth, trading notes and parenting the song until they reached for the same key and their fingers brushed. Amethyst met emerald. Slowly, England placed his hand over Austria’s, fingers overlapping, and pressed his fingertip down onto the key. Austria looked down at their hands together, both pale and deft, England’s just a little smaller than Austria’s.

 _“Still,”_ England whispered, wistful. _“Still. Still.”_

Austria waited for him to finish the song, or even just the verse, but England was motionless. So Austria lifted his gaze to the other nation’s face, and was shocked to find a tear sliding down his cheek. England’s voice came out raspy. “New Year’s Resolution?”

It took Austria a moment to process what he was being asked. Before, his response would have been frivolous. _Continue to love what I love._ Then, if asked what those things were, he would have replied: _Hungary and music and summer._ Midsummer evenings with the woman he loved at his side and a violin nestled beneath his chin. Heaven. Heaven on earth.

Austria struggled to find his voice. “I just . . . I want everything to be alright.”

England removed his hand from Austria’s and pensively touched a black key, but not hard enough to make a sound. “That’s a good thing to want.”

Austria stared at England’s eyelashes, such thin, delicately curved things. Like the petals of a flower. Fated to fall, but clinging while they could, striving for beauty, however brief.

“What,” Austria heard himself ask, “do you want, Mr. England?”

England turned and leaned close enough that his lips brushed Austria’s. They shared the same breath, they were all the other could see. England closed his eyes and murmured into Austria’s mouth, “I want to know what I want.”

Austria could have pulled back.

Tonight was not real.

Austria could have said, _No. You’re drunk._

Tonight, there were no rules.

Austria kissed England.

It was different, of course, every kiss was different. England’s lips were thinner than Hungary’s, and they tasted of scotch and sorrow, but they were not bad at kissing, by any means. In their kisses—and in everything else, now that Austria thought about it—Hungary let Austria think he was leading. She held back and supported at the same time; when they made love, she was usually on top, and when she wasn’t, she controlled their tempo. She had been so strong in the empire days. Austria loved that about her. But the way she wanted him to think he was still strong today—it was untruthful, even if it came from a good place. It was lying.

England was nothing but upfront. He was stronger, and his tongue tracing Austria’s teeth gave no mystery to that. Austria closed his eyes and submitted to the other nation’s touches as if they were a song. He did not need to see them; he only had to feel them.

England laid him down on the cushioned piano bench, kneeling before him like a subject before a king. _How fitting,_ Austria thought, fingertips caressing the Englishman’s messy hair. _Like royalty._ He’d once thought there was a chance at friendship between himself and England. England had an aristocratic flair. He could be quite the gentleman—and in the next moment he’d be swearing at America or strangling France, and the appeal was gone. If only he could pick gentry over punk, then Austria would be happy to welcome him.

England licked a finger as if to test the wind and slowly pushed it into Austria. It hurt, but no worse than the image of Hungary and Prussia burned into his mind. Had she whimpered like Austria did now? Had Prussia’s cock stretched her to the limit? Had she begged, panting and dripping, for a break? Had Prussia obliged, or had he kept slamming into her, his own pleasure eclipsing all else?

Tears pricked Austria’s eyes. Tears of shame as well as heartbreak, because every imagined thrust of Prussia’s hips—combined with the pushing and stroking of England’s fingers—had droplets of precome weeping from Austria’s throbbing head.

England climbed on top of him. The bench wasn’t really big enough this, but it didn’t matter. To Austria, it was like the blond nation was hovering over him, hands everywhere at once. Those hands were not so different from Hungary’s, even if they warmed such untouched places. They had such skill, far more experience than Hungary possessed. She was a warrior, an honest fighter. England was a pirate, a snake. He had done this countless times, and had it done to him countless times on top of that. And he was drunk. Who knew if he would even recall this in the morning? Perhaps that was why Austria allowed it to happen. He would tell himself that was why, later.

Above him, England tipped his head back and rocked into Austria, once, twice. A shuddering groan, a hot spurt against Austria’s thighs. Austria could appreciate that, at least; no mess within, only on the outside. Not like Prussia. He had come inside of Hungary. Had she asked for it? Or had she not cared either way? Would she have gone to Austria like that, without cleaning up? What if he had wanted her then? What if they had made love with Prussia’s seed still inside her, with her walls already loose, slicked by another man, oozing with dark secrets? What if Austria had come inside, as he always did, and their juices mixed within her?

Austria convulsed as his orgasm ripped through him, a white firework spattering England’s hand. Happy Near Year, indeed. Austria continued to quiver in the wake of his pleasure, shivers running over his body, at once hot and cold, angered and saddened—until England covered Austria with his body and gently kissed the beauty spot on his chin. “Still,” England whispered, eyes unfocused.

“Still,” Austria breathed, and sealed their lips together. The morning would bring questions, answers, tears, and confusion, but now he could have this, a small pocket of peace. Perhaps it could be had again. Perhaps differences could be overcome. Perhaps things could change for the better, in time.

But for now, the gentlemen would lie here in the silence, still.

 

 

 

_The End._


End file.
